"Why shouldn't it be me as well as another?. . . At least sit down till I pay the bill."
She seated herself, stared at her plate.
"Now what are you thinking about?" he asked.
"I don't know exactly. Nothing much."
The waiter brought the bill. The young man merely glanced at the total, drew a small roll of money from his trousers pocket, put a five-dollar note on the tray with the bill. Susan's eyes opened wide when the waiter returned with only two quarters and a dime. She glanced furtively at the young man, to see if he, too, was not disconcerted. He waved the tray carelessly aside; the waiter said "Thank you," in a matter-of-course way, dropped the sixty cents into his pocket. The waiter's tip was by itself almost as much as she had ever seen paid out for a meal for two persons.
"Now, where shall we go?" asked the young man.
Susan did not lift her eyes. He leaned toward her, took her hand. "You're different from the sort a fellow usually finds," said he. "And I'm—I'm crazy about you. Let's go," said he.
Susan took her bundle, followed him. She glanced up the street and down. She had an impulse to say she must go away alone; it was not strong enough to frame a sentence, much less express her thought. She was seeing queer, vivid, apparently disconnected visions—Burlingham, sick unto death, on the stretcher in the hospital reception room—Blynn of the hideous face and loose, repulsive body—the contemptuous old gentleman in the shop—odds and ends of the things Mabel Connemora had told her—the roll of bills the young man had taken from his pocket when he paid—Jeb Ferguson in the climax of the horrors of that wedding day and night. They went to Garfield Place, turned west, paused after a block or so at a little frame house set somewhat back from the street. The young man, who had been as silent as she—but nervous instead of preoccupied—opened the gate in the picket fence.
"This is a first-class quiet place," said he, embarrassed but trying to appear at ease.
Susan hesitated. She must somehow nerve herself to speak of money, to say to him that she needed ten dollars—that she must have it. If she did not speak—if she got nothing for Mr. Burlingham—or almost nothing—and probably men didn't give women much—if she were going with him—to endure again the horrors and the degradation she had suffered from Mr. Ferguson—if it should be in vain! This nice young man didn't suggest Mr. Ferguson in any way. But there was such a mystery about men—they had a way of changing so—Sam Wright—Uncle George even Mr. Ferguson hadn't seemed capable of torturing a helpless girl for no reason at all——